


Periphery

by LovelyLogic



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arthur is a good man, F/M, Female Character of Color, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Semi-Public Sex, Though you're free to imagine whoever you like!, john is trying his best, no TB
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 13:32:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17788328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLogic/pseuds/LovelyLogic
Summary: They were phosphenes, snatches of joy snuck between jobs gone wrong—wolf claws slashed across a brooding gaze, winking blue eyes that felt like a depthless well. Yet for all the love and lust and life you poured into them, it was there they remained...just out of reach.





	1. Chapter 1

Abigail had every right to be with him. He was the father of her child, her man even if they slept in different tents. She'd been with the gang years compared to your measly months, had rapport with Dutch and Arthur and Charles and Grimshaw; she was friends with Mary Beth and Tilly, knew how to still the Reverend when his ranting grew wild.

She had _every_ right. But that didn't halt your longing.

Granted, there was a _lot_ else to long for. You'd been a shopgirl since you were 10, saw all manner of folks roll through Saint Denis—scholars, doctors, police. But never had you seen such a concentration of good-looking men in one place. Arthur was rugged, Charles unique; Javier a charmer, Sean wily, and Lenny warm like whiskey.

There were _options_ , all of them viable if you just asked. But you fell fool ass backward into wanting Marston.

It started out innocently enough, a product of joining the Van der Linde gang after O'Driscolls killed the only family you had.

Your old shopkeep, Francis Barr, was like a father to you—took you in when your mother, his old shopgirl, passed; taught you to read and keep ledgers despite murmurs from the townsfolk. To Barr you weren't "too dark" to be worth his time. He treated you well, even let you live in the rear shop apartment when you were of age.

Folks said it was unnatural to be so kind to a young woman unless he was saving you for himself, that you had to be "earning your keep somehow." They jeered as you got older, not only about your skin color, but about the man who treated you as his own. You didn't listen. Barr had his failings—he expected perfection and had a short temper if you made an error in the ledger—but he was a good man.

Until the O'Driscoll boys killed him during a robbery.

It'd been a swampy August day, door propped open to vent the general store. Sweat matted dense curls to your head as you took inventory and sipped lemonade.

_"_________," Barr said, taking till behind the counter. His fanning black sideburns and big silver spectacles lent him an owlish look. "That Evers boy's been 'round again. Keeps askin' for my approval to court you."_

You shrugged. Lee Evers was a lawyer from New York come to start a practice in Saint Denis. It was no secret he was sweet on you, often stopping to buy items he didn't need.

_"I ain't interested in a man, Barr. Who else is going to make sure this place doesn't go to pot?"_

Barr looked up from his work.

_"I can manage just fine. But you're a young lady now—shacked up with an old man is no place for you to be. There are certain...disadvantages you'll face out there. I can't protect you from them for much longer, but Lee—"_

_BANG!_ A gunshot splintered the ceiling as three men burst in brandishing pistols. They wore green rags over their noses, two holding up the counter as one grabbed you by the arm. You screamed as he pressed cold steel to your temple.

_"This is a robbery, old man. Money in the bag or I put a hole through the girl's head," shouted the leader, throwing a sack on the counter. Barr gaped in horror, emptying the till into the bag._

Gunpowder assaulted your nose, disgust rearing as your captor held you tighter.

_"Please, sir, there's no need for violence! Here's your money."_

_"And the safe?"_ barked the leader. _"You shop types always have a fuckin' safe."_

_"It's in the stock room, just through that rear door."_

The leader sent one to investigate as he rifled through the shop wares. _"No decent booze? Figures."_

You saw Barr's left arm dip beneath the counter, felt your heart stop as you realized what he was reaching for. The shotgun, a double barrel Wesson he stashed for nights when you closed.

Heart racing, you mouthed a silent "no" when he caught your eye. Barr gave a subtle nod, deafening _CRACK_ blowing the leader's chest open. You used the slack to wrench yourself loose, braining a rum bottle against your captor's skull.

It wasn't enough. Your captor managed to get a shot off, bullet nailing Barr in the chest.

_"NO!"_ you screamed, heart racing as scarlet seeped through his white shirt. Scrambling over the counter, you grabbed the shotgun and pointed it at the stock room door, sure the third thief was on his way back. Spying a scrap of green cloth in the doorway, you pulled the trigger, shoulder nearly torn off by the kick.

It did the trick. The third man splattered all over the doorpost, leaving only you and a bleeding Barr. Tossing the gun aside, you dropped to the floor, dread rising as his breaths turned to wheezes.

_"Barr? Barr, hold on!"_ you said, ripping his shirt to examine the wound.

There was _so_ much blood... _too much._ Barr trained panicked eyes on you, mouth moving as breath failed him. What's worse, the commotion was bound to draw the law. Even with the dead robbers, there was a high chance they'd hang you as a collaborating thief.

_"T-take what you can and run. They're...coming..."_ he rasped. You pressed a kiss to his damp forehead, cradling his face between your palms. Watching life leave the man who raised you, you wrestled every bit of gratitude you could into your next words: _"Thank you."_

A weak smile curled his lips even as his eyes glazed. _"Go."_

You did, stuffing a sack full of cash and provisions.

From the men you took their belts and pistols, ignoring the fact you were looting corpses. Snagging a hat and jacket from the smallest one, you tucked your hair under the brim and slipped out the back door.

Galloping off on Barr's shop horse, you were officially an outlaw.

You rode hard, first through Lemoyne, then into New Hanover until you hit Valentine. Fortunately it was more liberal than Lemoyne, clerks allowing you to rent a room and take a bath with few questions asked. Changed into fresh clothes from the general store, you ventured to the saloon for food, pistol strapped just in case. Valentine's saloon was rowdy, music and vive rivaling those in the city.

_Perfect place to lie low._ Except it wasn't. You were hardly through your lamb and grits before a bar fight broke out. Rough-and-tumble men—Javier, Bill, and Arthur as you later knew them—started a brawl, fists flying in every direction.

You jumped out of the way, ducking fighters with your gun drawn as you made for the doors. The fight spilled out onto the street, one man beating another's face into the mud. Halfway free of the crowd, you bumped into the human embodiment of mischief—cigar in-hand with a red brocade vest and pristine bowler hat.

_"My apologies young lady, I did not mean to bother you."_

_"You weren't, sir,"_ you said, bowing your head. Most folks in Valentine were friendly, though there were a few who saw fit to start trouble if they thought you weren't "minding your place." Somehow he didn't seem like one of them _."I was just making my way from the saloon. Fight broke out."_

_"That explain the gun?"_ he asked, brow raised.

_"Can't be too careful,"_ you said, grinding your boot into a muddy hoofprint.

_"Only if you got somethin' to run from."_

_"Everyone's got something to run from, Mr..."_

_"Van der Linde. Call me Dutch. What are you running from, Miss...?"_

You sighed, already tired from trying to keep up with him. He was cunning, enjoyed spinning webs with his words when all you wanted to do was sleep.

_"_________. Nothing, really—some robbers in green shot my dad, and the law don't like my kind being lone survivors, so I left."_

God knew why you were spilling this all to some man you just met, but the twinkle in his eye suggested he'd seen far worse. From the way he watched the fight, you suspected these boys—especially the one covered in mud—were his.

Dutch's attention piqued at the robbers. _"These boys, they Irish soundin'?"_

_"A little. Didn't pay much attention with a gun to my head."_

He was quiet then, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You watched a farmer scurry out to stop the muddy man from killing his opponent.

At last Dutch spoke, quiet words audible even above the din. _"You know how to use that thing?"_

_"I'd say—blew a man's ribs to smithereens. This one's smaller, but I reckon it'll do its job the same."_

He laughed and you followed suit, floored by the absurdity of it all. Here you were, a frightened runaway talking murder with some discount rogue baron. The three troublemakers made their way through the crowd toward Dutch, grins on their faces. You'd hardly stepped away when Dutch spoke up, smile tugging his mustached lip.

_"How'd you like a shot at revenge?"_


	2. Chapter 2

You woke at dawn, spring chill air seeping through your buttoned tent. Gently you stirred, careful not to make too much noise as the camp sounded largely asleep. Peeking through the flap, you smiled to yourself. 

_Perfect._

In a camp Dutch's size, it was virtually impossible to get a moment to yourself. Grimshaw and Hosea were early risers; Pearson was never far behind, putting a cauldron of coffee to brew for the whole camp. Today you'd beaten them all.

Eager, you changed out of your flannel nightdress into your workclothes. 

They were nothing fancy—a high-waist pair of black workman's denim and a white tie-collar button up. You tucked your boots under your arm, opting for bare feet so your spurs didn't rattle. In your free hand you took your rifle, a bottle of polishing oil, and a cloth. 

You emerged from your tent, breathing Horseshoe Overlook's clean alpine air. Tiptoeing from your cluster with Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen, you crossed camp and opted for a big rock near the edge.  The view never tired—a swath of jagged mountains like arrowheads across the sky, pine and cedar hugging every cliff.

It was different than Lemoyne, possessed a clarity not found in red clay country. 

You could air your mind here. Balancing the bolt-action rifle on your lap, you set about  the task of cleaning it. 

_Remove the grip, unscrew the_ sideplate with the tool Javier lent you. 

Loose _the hammer, trigger, barrel, and body,_ laying them out on a roll of old canvas. The chore had the cadence of taking inventory. 

"Before Strauss polluted it," you whispered, dipping a rag into the gun oil. 

Part of your assimilation into the gang months ago was evaluating your strengths. You were a shit cook, product of Barr's bringing you up in a house with servants. Even when you moved into the shop apartment, he brought you leftovers from dinner along with a parcel of cold breakfast. 

You were alright at cleaning, able  to help Tilly or Mary-Beth when the laundry pile got too big. Even so, that wasn't where you truly shone. 

Dutch quickly found out it was bookkeeping. You were a whiz with ledgers, able to parse funds and calculate debt even without an abacus. So he stuck you with Strauss, made you assist in evaluating camp funds and keeping track of money lent to the townspeople. 

It was filthy work, worse than any of the heists or hits Dutch sent the boys on. Which is why you asked to go hunting. 

Charles was slated to teach you, but Dutch put him on a job with Javier and Sean so John stepped up. Arthur then chimed in to assist...likely to keep an eye on Marston. 

_Or you._ You shook the thought away, needing no more paranoia than you already felt. 

You and John got along well. He was the first person to make you laugh at camp, some joke about Pearson's secret ingredient being wood shavings as he whittled across the table from your stew.

Something about him—the slight hoarse in his voice or mischief in his dark eyes—drew you in, kindling the first sparks of traitor lust. You started watching for him when the boys came back from runs, doing your best to blend in as you scanned to see if he was hurt. 

He brought you trinkets when you asked: an extra chocolate bar here, a can of peaches there. He was kind, joked that you should hide them lest the other girls get jealous. You did, not keen on being questioned. 

_Or accused._

You weren't stupid. Despite your best attempts to thwart it, your attraction to John only grew as you stayed in camp. Your ears strained for the sound of his laugh, your breath grew shallow when he nodded his hellos or asked you about your day. 

And it wasn't one-sided. Often you felt him watching you while you sipped your coffee or chatted with Strauss. He was sly, but occasionally you caught him. He didn't look away,  hunger palpable even as he returned to his work.

_He has Abigail,_ you thought, shining the barrel as you began reassembling the rifle. _And Jack._

Sure they stayed in separate tents, and John insisted the boy wasn't his, but that did little to ease the guilt whenever you heard them fight or saw Abigail crossing camp. She was sweet and spirited, had a toughness about her but was always nice to you.

Here you were, burning for her man. 

A voice spoke behind you: "Mornin'."  

You jumped, hand on your chest when you realized it was Arthur. 

"Hey Arthur," you said, unsurprised he was up. A few times you'd caught him journaling in this same spot. "I take it you had a restful night?"

"Much as can be expected as a wanted man. How about yourself?"

"Alright. Tossed a bit but can't complain."

Arthur lit a cigarette and took a drag, offering it to you. You accepted, grateful for something to busy yourself with. It wasn't that you didn't appreciate his presence—he was calming, steady and strong without saying much of anything. But his silence was incisive, capable of culling things from people they had no business sharing. 

"You ready to go huntin' today?"

"If by hunting you mean me scaring off deer while you and John chase 'em down, then yeah," you joked, handing back the cigarette..

Arthur smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Your cheeks burned as his baby blues searched your face.

_Not now..._ you prayed, silently hoping he'd let whatever it was go. 

"You been with us for what, six, seven months?" he asked. 

You nodded.

"Can I ask you somethin' as a friend then,_________? And I want you to shoot straight with me."

_Shit._  Nothing good ever followed that line of questioning. 

"Sure, Arthur." 

"Why ain't you using your head? You're a smart, beautiful girl—you could blink and have anyone in this place. Marston...he won't do a damn thing but break your heart."

You froze, staring like a child caught sneaking sweets.  There was no malice on his face, just confusion and soft pity. Blood rushed your ears,  drowning the chirping birds and gurgling water from streams below. 

Arthur asked for your honesty. It didn't mean you had to address what he asked. 

"That anyone include you, Morgan?" you asked, words flimsy and choked. 

He sighed through a smoky exhale. "If you'd have me, sure. But I won't be no one's stand-in." 

"And as a _friend_ , have I been..." 

"'Indiscreet?' No. But I've seen enough broke hearts to spot one on its way." 

You pecked his stubbly cheek, lips lingering even as he sighed. It felt good to have contact, however fleeting. _Care_ , however much your heart was set on ignoring it. At last you drew away, smirking at the slight blush in his cheeks. 

"Thank you, Arthur," you said, assembling the last bits of your gun. 

"Sure."

The two of you finished the cigarette in silence, rousing only when another set of footsteps approached. You looked behind, expecting Hosea or Dutch. Instead you found a freshly-woken John.

Sunlight dabbed the scar on his face and pistol on his belt. Dark hair fell in his eyes, lending him a spectral appearance as he waded through the morning mist. He stopped short when he saw you, smile tugging his lips.

"Mornin', __________."

"Morning, John," you nodded, pushing a dense curl behind your ear. He spoke your name like something holy; you stashed it to replay on quiet nights. 

Arthur stood, grinding the spent cigarette under his heel. 

"We still huntin' or are you two gonna moon all morning?" he said, not waiting for an answer as he made for his horse. 

You hurried toward the mounts, doggedly keeping your eyes forward as you scooted by John. Pointedly ignoring the hand that brushed yours—the fingers you swore curled into the accidental touch—you endeavored to take Arthur's advice, just this once.


	3. Chapter 3

"Another whiskey, please."

 

_Damn it._  You sat at the counter, sipping bourbon in the one place you tried to avoid on your outing. A post-hunt drink was apparently time-honored among the Van der Linde boys. Conveniently, neither John nor Arthur brought their flasks with them. 

So here you were, 1.5 glasses in and sitting next to the source of your troubles. True, the first celebration drink was supposedly in "your honor" as you shot the buck currently being parsed at Valentine's butcher.

Arthur (who'd taken lessons from Charles) was a good teacher, able to guide your bow arm which resulted in two downed turkeys. John helped track, picking up a deer trail that led to a small herd drinking water in a clearing. 

You took the shot on your own, laying prone on an overlooking hill. Aiming your barrel just below the horns, you pulled the trigger, relieved it went down without suffering. When you got up to retrieve it, you found both men watching you with newfound respect.

They insisted on taking the meat to Valentine's butcher, heading to the saloon in the downtime. 

Though all three of you were present for the first round, Arthur dipped out to track a nearby bounty he'd been tipped off about. 

When John ribbed him about working for the law, Arthur shrugged. 

"What Dutch don't know won't hurt him," were his words. The tense in his shoulders and stolen glances told a different tale. 

_Oh._  

The realization settled on you like first frost on grass—unexpected, with an air of bitter chill. Arthur's departure wasn't solely to collect on some petty criminal holed up in the hills. It was an escape, abandoning you and Marston so he wouldn't have to witness. 

You thought to call after him—tell him you were young and foolish, that you never thought someone as good as Arthur would  _want_ you, damn it—but he was gone before you could.

And now you were alone with the man who plagued your nights.

"No more for me," you said, clapping your hand over the glass.

John laughed, swilling the rest of his. "What, don't trust I'd get you to camp safe?"

You shivered at the possessiveness in his voice. Inside you were a mess, heat between your thighs risen to an insistent fever pitch. Your eyes slipped to his hands as he fidgeted a stray coin between his fingers. Spring saw him in a white linen shirt and weathered cognac vest that hid little. You knew it was wrong to stare, just like you knew he was baiting you with his words. But you ached, tired of exercising control over something that stole the reins from you long ago. 

Willing your voice even, you answered. "I don't trust we'd _make_ it back."

"And just why is that,______?" He smirked, scarred lip tugging upward as he waited for your reply.

"Y' _know_ why, Marston. Please don' make me say it," you whispered, words jumbling as you tried to free them.

His laden, heavy-lidded stare was tarnished by the smugness in his voice, almost like he enjoyed your anguish. 

"Say what?" 

_Enough._  You pushed away from the counter, pride pricked and on the verge of tears. Dutch's gang was the first place you truly felt  _home_ , not beholden to forever life as Barr's shopgirl or struggling to save enough for a piece of property in Saint Denis. You had a pistol and a pocketknife and a horse laced with rifles. You wore pants and were a proper outlaw, goddamn it.  

_Bleeding hearts have no place._

Intent on a proper exit, you sauntered off as best you could with liquor in your blood. John protested, hopping to his feet when you kept walking.

"___________," he called, trailing behind as you were halfway to the saloon doors.  "___________, come back!"

You paused for a moment, the lapse just enough for him to catch up. He took your arm, gently turning you around. 

You tensed, assaulted by a myriad of things at once: _fire from standing so near, whiskey on his breath, fingers that softened against you but didn't let go._ Up close you saw the sunspots on his face, most of them hidden by stubble.

At last you looked directly at him, startled by his furrowed brow and pleading earth-brown eyes.

"Tell me," he rasped.

"No—you have Jack and Abigail and I...I'm just being silly and—"

"For tonight, then. Just _tell_ me, _________...please." 

The battle was lost. Sure, you shook your head in a feeble attempt to keep your composure. 

But he walked you backward until your back hit the saloon wall, hips caging you even as his hands dropped to his sides. Even with the low gas lamps you were sure he could see your blush. You swallowed, head swimming as his finger lifted your chin.

"I want _you_ , John."

A low groan thrummed his throat as closed the gap, free hand looping around your back as he crushed his lips against yours. You breathed him in—liquor, soil, and resin—as his fingers lodged in your curls. John kissed you rough against the wall, hips grinding as you pitted his tongue against yours. 

You gasped as his hardness nudged you, losing all good sense as he reeled you in. It was clumsy and desperate, teeth clacking as you struggled for air. 

At last you pulled back, heart thundering. John's mouth worked in vain to find words, face full awe. 

He took your hand, leading you back to the bar. Your head swam, every nerve of your body alight with longing. Even his fingers in yours had you giddy, felt like belonging, however fleeting.

Even so, you were aware this could lead nowhere good. "What are you—"

"Room please," he said, to the barkeep, words hoarse.

"Presumptuous to think I'd room with you, Marston. A kiss ain't a promise," you quipped, if only not to feel so easy. 

John paid the keep and swiped the key, turning to you. There was resignation in the set of his shoulders, a tense in his jaw that could almost be called _shy_ if you didn't know the man. 

"I know it ain't, and you don't gotta stay," he muttered, bracing his elbows against the counter. "But I can't just go back to camp tonight pretendin' everything's fine."

"And Jack? Abigail? What are they supposed to think?" you asked, half in genuine anger, half in obligatory penance. The reminder burned like too-hot water, but reviving their memory kept you from desiring the impossible.

John winced. "That I'm a bad man and a fool, which they already do. I'll be back tomorrow—I'll be what they _want_ tomorrow. But I can't tonight. Not when the girl I love said she wants me back."

His words lanced you like a bullet to the thigh (yet another first-time experience you'd had with the Van der Linde gang). It wasn't that you couldn't fathom it—mortal peril and close quarters had a way of cementing bonds. 

Rather, it was the sincerity—the way his gaze pinned you, sheepish and mourning—which drove you to tears. The scars across his face softened, shiny new skin catching the last bit of evening sun.

_He can't._ John Marston was impetuous, every bit the hardened gunslinger you'd seen shoot a man from half a mile off. He was roguish, charming enough to snag any saloon girl he wanted without effort.

_He can't love you._

"Don't, John," you warned. "You don't mean that and I can't take it." 

"The hell I don't!" he shouted, outburst drawing a few eyes from nearby patrons. With a deep breath, he continued: "I ain't sure about a lotta things,________, but I said what I said. And I aint' movin' on it."

"Say whatever you want, but you ain't leaving that boy or his mama," you growled. The words sapped your bluster until you only had raw truth. "No man I love ever would."

John nodded, jaw tight. You clawed out of his grasp, muting every foolish impetus to stay. Camp was where you belonged, buoyed by Tilly, amused by Karen, anchored by Arthur. Mary-Beth might even lend you one of her dime romances to cheer you. 

Grateful for the cold night air, you mounted your horse and started for Horseshoe Overlook.


	4. Chapter 4

You didn't make it far before you spotted Arthur heading into town. His red horse jaunted through the mud, proud even with a growling bounty strapped to its back. You steered into an alley between the town's other saloon and a neighboring farmhouse, in no mood to be discovered just then.

It was compromising to be caught in such a state of...disarray. Your lips were still beestung, phantom fingers clutching at your hips even as you tried to dispell them; the plaits keeping the hair out of your face were shadows of themselves, disheveled from where John's fingers played.

If Arthur spotted you, there'd be no mistaking the look on your face. _Guilty._

Still you stayed, portrait of a girl at rosary: lips parted, cheeks flushed, fingers worrying the locket you stole from a Hanover homestead. Several things kept you there, each sadder than the last. 

_Embarrassment_ at the fiasco with John and wondering what he'd do now you that left him jilted.

_Shyness_ upon spying Arthur, who rightfully warned you against being rash with Marston.

_Loneliness_ ,  sparked for the first time since you snuck a boy into Barr's at 16.

Desire robbed you of breath, bade you watch as Arthur hoisted the bounty over his shoulder. Even in dusk light you saw his denim shirt strain. Ignoring the bounty's cries for freedom, he  disappeared into the sheriff's office, spell broken as your conscience reared.

_Leave now! He'll never even know...there's nothing for you here._

Still you stayed. 

Arthur saved you (along with Abigail and Jack) a well of heartache. For that he deserved your support, even if it was only silent witness to a good deed.

He reemerged from the sheriff's, stack of cash in hand. You withdrew further into the alley, hoping he didn't see you as he glanced down the street. He seemed not to, pocketing the money and mounting his horse with ease. Pride swelled your chest as Arthurnodded to passerby, his telltale "howdy, mister" prompting a smile. You'd just begun to steer out of the alley and ride back to camp when Arthur stopped at the corner.

"You gonna stay there all night?" he called.

_Stay quiet, he probably thinks you're a lawman._ In which case it'd be better to run before Arthur drew his pistol, but even a bullet sounded preferable to leaving your hiding spot.

"Come on out,_________, I know it's you. I can see your shadow in the saloon window—ain't no one else got hair that wild."

_Should've worn the hat,_  you thought, lamenting the wide brim left on your cot.

Hastily composing yourself, you took a deep breath and trotted your horse onto the street.

"Hey, cowboy."

"You followin' me now?" he asked, brow raised.  His hat was off for once, short sandy hair swept haphazardly to the side. Keen blue eyes tracked your every move, made you squirm in the saddle.

"Nah, I was headed back to camp. Just happened to see you passing by."

Arthur scrubbed a bearded cheek, skepticism writ in his stare. "And you _happened_ to wait for me in an alley? I nearly drew my gun."

"Didn't mean to frighten you."

"I wouldn't say all that. Thought you'd be off with...well, thought you'd be off for the night."

"So did I. But you were right, I'm no homewrecker. I'd rather be lonely than ruin what little normal those three  have."

Bitterness soaked your words, even with the attempted laugh. Your fingers kept vigil over the locket, if only to provide a distraction. Arthur's wit was usually harmless—a wisecrack mid-fight, verbal parries with Uncle or Trelawney.

With you it was belied by an undercurrent of interest. You caught it on occasion, his mulling gaze and parted lips a picture of a man in anguish. Had it been Javier or Sean you'd dismiss it as animal need, shoo them away to visit the local saloon.

Arthur rendered you silent.

He flitted at the edge of your vision, all broad shoulders and sly grins. His mussed hair, fur-lined leathers and denim workshirt were like something out of a serial; his scarred chin lent him a roguish air, furthered by the weapons strapped to his belt.

"And are you?" he asked.

You stopped fidgeting with the locket, realizing you'd been staring. "Am I what?"

"Lonely, _________."

Once, you saw two men play roulette in a Saint Denis bar. It was a thrilling affair, saloon frothing with excitement as both men dared each other to pull the trigger. You'd never forget the hooting and hollering, or the chanting"Do it, do it!" that shook the very floors. But no one laughed when one finally drew an unlucky turn, or as the bar girls scrubbed brains out of the floorboards.

This game was far less deadly, though you feared the stakes all the same. You'd gambled empty chambers all day:

The snug denims that drew his eye as you switched your hips.

The lewd songs you belted as the three of you rode through the forest.

The _"lucky girl,"_ you muttered when Arthur told you and John about the escort Dutch got him for his 20th birthday.

Now, on a lonely street in Valentine, there were no more do-overs. Just you, Arthur, and the makings of a latent offer.

"Maybe."

If Arthur heard the hurt in your voice he was gracious enough not to speak on it. Instead he hitched his horse, beckoning for you to do the same. Usually you would've battled a bit, asked him just who he was to think you'd listen. But you were damn tired of hiding. Taking the hand he offered, you swung off your horse and tied it to the post. The two of you hopped the fence behind Valentine's smaller saloon, sheltering under a sprawling oak.

Arthur lit a cigarette. "You did good tonight."

"So did you, Officer Morgan," you jibed, glancing at the cigarette hand. Dipping your lips to his fingers, you ignored his surprise and took a drag.

He stared as you raised your head, eyes fixed firmly on your mouth. You chuckled at the awe on his face, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. Nerves rippled your spine as you imagined those fingers wandering your body.

You nudged his shoulder with yours, desperately trying to restore levity.  It was hard when wouldn't stop watching you;  _And_ when you got a taste of what those shoulders felt like, skin still buzzing from the contact.

_And when he smells so good..._ you mused, grass, gun oil and salt mingling with the scent of fresh-rolled tobacco.

Arthur raised a brow, leaning closer as he braced against the tree trunk. You took the invite, sidling up so your hip brushed his.

"It ain't all that," he answered, pulling you from your lust. "Bastard killed half the men in this town with false cures. He just got what was comin' to him."

"There you go again," you sighed, annoyed as he dodged the compliment.

"What's that mean?"

Wildly you gestured, taking the cigarette from him in the process.  What possessed you to be so bold—batting your lids while saloon light pierced your white shirt, hips swaying like some sort of voodoo woman—was something to parse later.

Now, you had an _audience_.

Arthur surveyed you with unmistakable interest, amusement tugging his lip into a crooked smirk.  Heartened you stepped closer, poking a finger against his chest. A low laugh rumbled from him, thrumming your arm like the electric streetlamps in Saint Denis.

"Pretending you're all 'big and bad,' like somebody'll strip your outlaw badge if they see you do one good deed," you said, walking your hand across his shirt.  

Arthur caught it, pulling you into him. His cool facade was otherwise unaffected, but there was no mistaking the fever that glittered in his eyes. Ice-blue even in the dim light, they roamed you with something akin to hunger.

 "'Least _I_ don't go preenin' every time someone tells me I done good," he husked.

You thumped his chest with the butt of your fist. "Wha—"

"Oh c'mon, _______, I ain't blind. Somebody thanks you for choppin' vegetables and you puff like a rooster."

"That's not true!" you said, blushing. _Am I really that obvious?_ Honestly, you chalked it up to those years in Barr's care, who'd been stingy with praise of your work. "It don't happen for just _any_ somebody..."

Arthur went sultry, strong hand circling your waist. You leaned in, humming as he brought you flush against him. Reeling, you skimmed your palm across his beard, sighing as leaned into the touch.

"Then who for?" he asked, amusement belied by the cocky twang in his voice.

He _had_ you, goddamn it. What's worse, he knew it.

"You know what I'm trying to say. Don't be mean, Arthur," you huffed, all too aware of your squirming hips.

He hummed, but made no effort to reciprocate as he held you still.

"I ain't in the business of reading minds, ________. Tell me what you want, and I'm more than happy to give it to you."

_“I won’t be no one’s stand-in.”_

The realization smacked you as you watched him. His whole being telegraphed hope despite attempts to hide it—the rapid thump of his heart, the bated breath and brightness on his shadowy face.

The words fell breathless from your lips. "You... _please_."

Arthur hardly stamped out his cigarette before he descended on you. What little inhibition remained vanished as he kissed you, strong hands squeezing like a man starved. You ran your hands along his shoulders, moaning at the ripple of muscle beneath his shirt. Fingers lodged in your tight curls, twining at the nape of your neck; a hand cupped your ass, taking liberties as a thick finger brushed your core.

Which isn't to say you were outdone. His beard tickled your cheek as you deepened the kiss, drove you wild as you melted against him. Arthur tasted of tobacco and whiskey and _freedom_ , every moment drawing you further away from yourself, whoever that was now.

Abandoning control, you ground your hips against him, gasping when the grip on your rear tightened. Pressed so close you could feel him throb, hardness insistent even through his pants. You palmed it, shivering at the low _"fuck,"_ he breathed as you stroked his length.

You kept at it, nipping his neck as you worked him until at last he pulled away.

"Enough," rasped Arthur, using his free hand to pop your shirt open. He loosed the bow you tied at the collar, fingers unbuttoning the rest with little effort.

You stood there, sheepish and spellbound as his calloused fingertips slid it off your shoulders. Next came your bra, a flimsy cotton thing that fell without fuss. Anxious for something to busy yourself with, you kicked off your boots and stripped your jeans, leaving you barefoot and nude in the spring grass. Nighttime breeze pebbled your nipples, made them ache for touch.

Arthur whistled low as you stood before him, his face stormy with lust. 

Then, hoofbeats from the street broke your reverie. You startled, reality returning. You were in the open, nude behind a saloon like a working girl. If a patron decided to peek, if someone went for a smoke break in the alley, _if John decided to barhop from Smithfield's—_

Arthur's voice centered you. "You trust me,______?"

The worry on your face must've shone bright, because he tilted your chin and kissed you soft.

"Of course I do, bu—"

"Then you know I'm not gonna let anything happen to you," he said, unfastening his vest. 

You gulped as he unbuttoned his shirt, denim parting to reveal a pale chest speckled with blonde hair. He held it out to you and you gratefully accepted, sliding on the oversized shirt. It fell well below your waist, just enough to hide your bits from view if anyone were to walk by. 

"Ain't no one besides me getting lucky enough to see all that. Now come here," he said, stripping his jeans and boxers halfway down his legs. 

You obeyed, powerless to do anything else as you caught sight of him. Arthur's cock stood at attention, considerable length caught in his palm. Easing his hand out of the way, you marveled at the thickness, fingers struggling to close around it. The needy groan from his lips nearly killed you, his breaths labored as he thrust into your hand.

Futilely you clenched your thighs together, cunt dripping as Arthur's fingers found your clit. Rubbing tiny circles, he prodded a thick finger into you. You moaned, peppering his jaw with haphazard kisses to keep from crying out.

"Never knew you were so fond of me," he teased, hissing as his finger came away glistening. 

You huffed, pouting at the sudden emptiness. "Then you're blind, Morgan." 

Wordlessly he hoisted an arm under your leg. Comprehension dawned as he lifted the other, clasping your arms firmly around his neck.

Arthur had you sopping wet and keening, your fingers struggling to find purchase against his shoulders. He eased in without preamble, girth splitting you as you slicked _down, down, down_ onto his cock. Finally he bottomed out, obscene moan peeling from you as you stretched to adjust.

"Good girl, don't be shy. The rest of you ain't," he muttered, lids hooded as he bounced you lightly.  Gold light from the saloon window haloed his dark blonde hair, dappled the strong arms that held you aloft. 

"Fuck off pretty boy," you gasped, robbed of breath as the tip of him found your spot.

Arthur buried a moan in the crook of your neck as you bucked against him. You glanced down, thrilled by the vice grip his hands had on your thighs. The two of you struggled for air, a mess of slicking sounds and throaty grunts as he pounded into you. 

Soon he backed you against the tree trunk, breath heavy as he set a steady pace. You cried out, walls fluttering as he laved your breasts, first one, then the other. He never faltered, arms holding you steady even as you tried to run from the mounting pleasure.

You were out of your mind, clutching for dear life as long, brutal strokes shoved you toward your peak. 

Frantic brown met pleasured blue as harried words escaped you. "Arthur I-I—"

"C'mon ______," he said, cock twitching. Sweat beaded his lip, smearing your mouth as he kissed you.  "Make me proud."

You threw your head back, curls catching the tree bark as you rolled your hips in time. His torso caught your clit on each withdraw, rhythm of  _empty, empty, full,_ draining you of coherent thought.  At last it was too much, Arthur snapping his hips up to graze your spot one time too many. 

" _Fuck_!" you wailed as the first wave slammed you. Everything broke—your spine went rigid, eyes rolled to the whites, fingers clawing, walls spasming as white-hot pleasure consumed you. At the heart of it was Arthur, who fucked you through your fit.

"That's it, let it out...you look so _pretty_ taking all of me," said Arthur, voice breaking as he neared the brink.

He fell apart just as you came down—strokes frenzied, teeth gritted, arms locking you in place as he savaged your cunt. Abruptly he pulled out and set you down, face a picture of perfect agony.

" _Where_?" he choked, furiously jerking his cock.

You immediately understood, mind racing through a series of options. Quickly you dropped to your knees, ignoring Arthur's red-faced surprise as you took the swollen tip into your mouth. He cried out, fist slamming the tree behind as you bobbed your head. Fisting your hair, Arthur fucked your throat with urgent, harried strokes. With a final, gagging thrust, he emptied, roaring low as he flooded your mouth. Eagerly you swallowed, pulling back once it subsided. 

You laughed at the admiration on his face, accepting a steadying hand as you got to your feet.

The two of you were silent as you rearranged yourselves, though the quiet wasn't unpleasant. He kissed your head when you handed back his shirt, watching you all the while with an expression you couldn't place. It was somewhere between bemusement and confusion, persisting even as the two of you retrieved your horses.

At last you had enough, turning to him as you got in the saddle. 

"What, Arthur?"

He was quiet for a moment, sated smirk gone somber. "You alright,_______?"

You took stock—thoroughly fucked, coming down from a whiskey buzz, satchel full of fresh meat for the camp... _Oh_. Immediately you knew what he was trying to ask. _"You over Marston yet?"_  That was a den of wasps you had no intention of poking tonight, especially when you'd _just_ cleared your head of it. 

Still, Arthur craved your lie—hell, _earned_  it after averting disaster with a few kind words. It's why you turned to him, smile sweeter than the saltwater taffy he was so fond of. 

"Never better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote all four of these chapters within the span of a week, but this is pretty much all I had outlined besides another scene with John. Definitely up to writing more if y'all are interested (and to hearing ideas!), just lemme know. ❤︎


	5. Chapter 5

A fine April midday found you updating the camp ledger, crates of donations caging you in on either side of Strauss's table. Dipping your pen into the inkpot, you slurped down some lukewarm coffee. The jolt was more than welcome, even if it was hours stale and cold. Dutch was in one of his moods, compliments of Molly O'Shea.  

His gregarious nature replaced by caustic scrutiny, he turned his eye to the coffers. It was a bad time to be the Van der Linde piggybank, Dutch's manic inquiry almost enough to spark camaraderie between you and Strauss. 

_"Miss______, Mr. Strauss, I'd like a report of our standing by evening—everyone's contributions are to be accounted for. Those with none do not eat. Understand?"_

And so you were remanded to the ledgers, plans for the day dashed. They weren't fancy: a river bath with the lavender soap you bought in town, a lesson in sirenhood from Karen, who promised to gussy you up for a night of flirt-assisted robbery with the girls; maybe a bit of berry picking in that patch a few miles west.

But Molly ticked Dutch off about "stealing her girlhood," and you were chained to your fountain pen.

"Damn it, O'Shea," you muttered, scowling as a blot stained your page.

You didn't hate Molly, much as it was the fashion in camp. She was aloof, a little vain, yes. But she was sweet more often than not, often asking you along for walks or taking lunch with you if the others were out. She taught you how to use rouge and braided your hair in Celtic braids when you let her.

Even so, you couldn't help judging her foolishness. For all his bluster about loyalty, Dutch would never love her. Hell, you weren't sure whether he was _capable_. He was quicksand—placid on the surface but a churning pit below.

He would take and take, burn her alive if she wasn't careful. _If she didn't stop wanting more._

It was a lesson you knew well. You avoided John and Arthur in the week since your hunting trip, content to nod your hellos and duck out of sight before either could corner you. So far it worked, but you knew the solution wasn't permanent.

Strauss's nagging was a different story. He tutted at the figures, grumbling to himself as the two of you compared books. 

"I know you don't like lending, but this total is _much_ too low. Dutch won't be happy with these numbers," Strauss tutted, spectacles enlarging his beady blues.

You huffed, already aware of where this was going.  "We can't collect on it today anyhow!"

"Not today, but the prospect of future earnings will soothe him. I've gone through this more times than you."

"No," you said, rubbing your temple as a caffeine headache loomed. 

The loanshark pursed his lips, nostrils flaring. He was a scary man when he got angry. You were scarier.

"Fraulein ______—"

"Don't _Fraulein_ me, Strauss. The answer is _no_ ," you growled, fists balling.

"You are in no position to tell me who to lend to!"

"I may not be, but Dutch is. Not sure he'd be happy with us beating up clergy."

Strauss had his eye on Thomas Downes for weeks now, all too eager to swindle the preacher. _"He's trusting and stupid, a do-gooder to boot. He'll pay."_ That much was true. Downes was an idiot, which only made it worse. At least the other lowlives they sharked wouldn't thank you as you beat them bloody.

Besides, hurting preachers brought bad fortune (even if you wanted to throttle Swanson for his drunken wailing).

" _What_ is going on here?" 

_Not good._ Dutch came over, looking like a thundercloud, chest puffed and smoking cigar in-hand; he glowered beneath the brim of his bowler. 

"Nothin', Dutch," you said, looking away. 

He spoiled you like the other girls in camp, allowing you certain liberties not given to the men. You bantered with him often, poking fun at his age or ribbing Molly for dating "a vexing old man." Perhaps it was all that time spent with Barr, but you were more comfortable speaking your mind around Dutch than Arthur or John. 

"If it's 'nothin',' then why do you and Mr. Strauss look like you want to kill each other, ____?"

_Or because you don't want Dutch like you want those two._ Shooing the thought away, you focused on a reply.

"Because Mr. Strauss here is intent on robbing men of God and I don't agree," you said, ignoring Strauss's glare. 

Dutch was unmoved, creased brow the only indication he'd heard you. "Are these men under duress to borrow from us?" 

"No, but there ain't no honor in beatin' poor folk for cash," you answered, aware you had a tiny window to convince him. Strauss might have logic on his side, but you had something even better. _Awareness of his ego._ Every ounce of charm bled into your next words. 

"I ain't stupid, Dutch—I know we need money, and I know it won't always be through savory means. But I'd rather steal it off rich folks...more fun that way." 

Dutch watched you for a moment, face blank as he sifted your words for bullshit. You were full of it, but _he_ didn't have to know that. 

"I take it you have something in mind, _______?" he asked, incredulous smirk tugging his mustache. 

Praying she didn't kill you for what you were about to do, you took a deep breath and spoke the scheme into existence. 

"Remember when I said I wanted to go robbin'? Karen's been teaching me to work a saloon—nothing unladylike, just good old-fashioned pickpocketing. Taught me how to tell a man with money from one without. There are a _lot_ of rich men in Saint Denis, Dutch. You let the girls and I try our luck a few nights, and I promise we'll come back with a haul three times' a farmer's loan. "

Wherever she rested, you hoped your mother was proud of you. Not of the whole outlaw thing—you were fairly certain she'd have wrung your ears for that. But her heathen daughter going out of her way to spare a preacher's life? That would've warmed her pious heart.

"And you think you'll come into money running a few fools' pockets?" Dutch asked, crossing his arms. 

The question was more probe than objection, a plumb to see just how deep your bravado ran. You were staking terms now—failure would mean your ass. Then again, so would getting caught by Pinkertons. 

"And safes, and hotel lockboxes, and saddlebags when I ask them to trot me around town and—"

Dutch's chuckling interrupted. "Alright, you've made your point. Take two of the girls—you've got four days."

"Thank you, Dutch!" you grinned, getting to your feet. "You won't regret it."

"I expect results, _____." 

Strauss sneered, likely cursing you out in German. You paid him no mind, shrugging off hours-long stiffness with a thrill.

_My first job._  It carried weight, one you shouldered proudly as preparations sprung to mind. Shaking Dutch's ring-adorned hand, you answered.

"I'll deliver." 

══════════════

Convincing Tilly and Karen to come was easy enough, both eager to raise some hell. You took a small duffel with the essentials—your best two gowns, delicates, plainclothes for daytime, and a smatter of cosmetics borrowed from Molly and Grimshaw. You'd leave for Lemoyne tomorrow morning, camp in Rhodes Hollow that afternoon, and ride into Saint-Denis that evening.

From there you'd clean up, have a drink, and go to task. 

_Simple enough._ All you had to do was make it through dinner without acting peculiar. 

At your behest, none of the ladies were to speak of the job around anyone besides Dutch. Grimshaw was informed, so there were no questions about sparing Tilly or Karen. Beyond that you kept it under wraps. 

_"How come?"_   Mary-Beth asked when you told her not to mention it around the campfire. She chattered all afternoon about a similar heist she'd read in a story.

Tilly, who crammed a violet gown into her beat-up valise, arched a brow.  _"So her men don't find out."_

You told her to stop telling tales and kept packing, but her words lingered for hours after. 

_My men._  The notion was ludicrous and worrying all at once. 

Had the camp heard about what happened between you and Arthur? You and _John_? Was everyone silent about it for your sake, gossiping behind your back as soon as you rode away?

You asked her as much. She patted your arm, twangy words sweet like syrup. 

_"I spend more hours around you, Karen, and Mary than anyone else, _____. I'd be dumb not to notice your...whatever it is that's goin' on between those two and you. But you ain't obvious, and you ain't flaunting it, so your secret's safe for now. You'll have to deal with 'em eventually, though. Arthur's never been a patient man, and John's liable to get eaten by another wolf you keep him waiting too long."_

You resolved to do just that— _Deal_.  How or what shape it'd take was trouble for another time.

"Or now," you said, eating a spoon of stew. 

Night fell in what felt like minutes after Dutch agreed to your plan. In reality it was hours, and you were prepped: the horses were pre-saddled, your clothes for the morning laid out. Molly would receive your letters and Sadie would do her best to keep the boys busy should they inquire.

Karen and Tilly had their game faces on, practicing accents and city manners between bites of dinner.

Then the plan imploded.

Earlier you asked Dutch about the livestock job John, Arthur, and Charles were running. He said they'd be out until tomorrow night as they were stealing prize horses along with the original score.

They returned an hour after sundown, blustering into camp with smiles on their faces. You tugged the brim of your hat down, trying your best to blend as you ate dinner. Across camp Hosea greeted them, snatches of conversation floating over. 

"Wasn't expecting you boys back so soon. I take it everything went well?" 

"...Marston nearly got us killed, but we did alright."

"More'n _alright_. Made a few hundred," said John, pulling a stack from his pocket.

Charles came after, sounding more than a little exasperated. "Next time we go on a run, can you two try not  killing each other?"

You looked away, hearing footsteps as they hitched the horses. They dismounted, Arthur calling Hosea over: "Why're those horses saddled up? The girls goin' somewhere?" You ate another bite, pointedly ignoring the  _"oh shit"_   looks Karen and Tilly lobbed your way. 

Hosea shrugged. "You'll have to ask _____. I don't know much about it."

So Arthur approached your table. You finally looked up, campfire light playing with the shadows. There was purpose in his walk, spurs jangling as his boots dug into the soft earth. His fingers clenched tight around his belt buckle, frown magnified by the firelight that bounced off his skin. 

"Ladies," Arthur nodded.

"Arthur," said Tilly, flashing you a sympathetic smile as she gathered her things to leave. 

Karen shook her head, calling out to Sean across the way. Just like that, you were alone. 

You thought to head over to the campfire, gather round to hear one of Uncle's many stories. There was room enough to join beside Abigail and Jack if you wanted; the boy was pleasant and Abigail was fun to chat with if John kept his distance. Then John sat beside her. He looked up from his plate, gaze switching between you and Arthur. His face went blank as he looked away, attention firmly fixed on the fire.

All the while, Arthur looked at you. "Horses are saddled up." 

"They are," you answered, resting your chin in your palm.

"You gonna tell me why?"

"Wasn't aware it needed explanation, Morgan. I'm headed out for a few days." 

Arthur crossed his arms, face darkening. You weren't silly, knew exactly what he was trying to get from you. _What are we?_ It was a question that plagued you for days, revived every time you tried to get some rest. 

The memory of him ravaging you was still fresh, rearing its head at inopportune times—cataloging heist money, or helping Pearson, or cleaning your gun. Once you'd even dreamt of him, felt the exquisite pounding as he rutted mercilessly into you. You awoke in a puddle of your own excitement, wetness demanding immediate attention.

He'd driven you wild, but beyond that you were at a loss. 

Sure, you _wanted_ him—anyone with eyes and half a brain would. But taking him again was tacit agreement this was something, however nebulous. He'd rightly expect a piece of you, some acknowledgement it wasn't casual. 

That frightened the hell out of you. 

"I don't know why you're being so difficult, woman," he argued, voice louder with every word.  He wasn't shouting, but the exchange drew eyes. Molly, Hosea and John watched you, no doubt curious what you'd do next.

You were in no mood for an audience. 

"Can we go somewhere and talk?" you asked, jerking a thumb toward the forest. He nodded and followed after you. You walked tall, stoic even as gossipy whispers followed you into the trees. On you went, ducking bramble and sidestepping ivy until you reached a small clearing. You turned around, nearly bumping into him.

"You're close," you breathed. 

A single deep breath would press your body to his. Good as his presence felt, you wouldn't—couldn't—afford to be selfish. 

He huffed. "I don't recall you minding  _close_ last time."

"Yeah well, that was last time." 

Arthur took a lazy step back. You scolded yourself for wanting to take his hand.

"That far enough for you, madam, or should I clear outta camp again?"

"Do whatever you want," you quipped, completely out of your depth. 

The breadth of your dating experience included a few encounters with stable boys or local rascals. It was all for fun, none of it more than quick romps or a bit of flirtation. 

Joining the gang changed all of that, caught your heart in a snare so thick it hurt to breathe. Barr always joked you didn't have room for a man in your heart, too caught up with facts and figures to notice anyone else. Arthur and John had you bleeding for two.

To your surprise, Arthur didn't lash out. He sighed, resignation weighing his shoulders.

"Why you fightin' me so hard,____? I ain't asked nothin' of you after that night—hell, haven't been _around_ to. All I wanna know is where you're going and you see fit to rip my damn head off. What did I do to you?"

Somehow being disarmed was worse than being yelled at. The fight fell out of you, replaced by a sad shrug. By common definition, Arthur was a bad man. 

He killed, he robbed, he brawled and tore through towns. But he was good enough to deserve your truth, however raw it was. 

You took a wobbly breath and spoke. 

"You made me _care_ , damn it! When I joined the gang I swore I wouldn't do...what we did in Valentine with you, or anyone else. And here I am broken up over, over—" 

"A bad man?"

"A man that'll never  _change_ ," you corrected, lighting on the thing that'd plagued you for days. "You're not bad. Hell, I'd even say I like you. But I know better than to expect anything more than what I got that night."

"Which is what, exactly?" he asked, voice tight.

The gruff words felt like sandpaper, eroding what little defense you had. There was a struck quality about him—brow furrowed, braced against a tree, each breath carrying him just a little further away. It looked like _hurt_. 

Through the trees, you heard the first notes of Javier's guitar. 

"A good time with a handsome man," you whispered, slight throb between your legs reminding you just how good a time it'd been. Alone there was nothing to busy your mind, which of course strayed to the way he'd growled in your ear: _"Make me proud."_

Arthur scoffed, running a hand through his short hair. "That all? Boy, Marston must've really done a number on you."

"It has _nothing_ to do with John and everything to do with the fact that you can't handle anything else! Robbin', killin', schemin'—that's your first love, and I sure as hell can't replace it," you seethed, foot trampling the leaves below. 

" _Love_? You think a whole lot of yourself, ____. What we _did_ in Valentine was a favor, nothin' more." 

The words hit like arrows in flesh, flint and unduly deep. You bristled at the sneer on his face, felt like a little girl brought before a bear. Had you misread things, saw signs where there were none? The possibility mortified you. 

Maybe you were being silly, reading too much into a single night's diversion. You tamped the urge to cry, cheeks hotter than summer sun.   _Don't you dare...not in front of him._

Intent on saving face, you straightened, cocking a hip in your best impression of Sadie. "Then how come you're so keen to know where I'm going?"

Arthur was unwavering, face hard with a hand on his belt. 

"Just trying to make sure you don't get yourself killed," he shrugged, eyes narrowed.  Won't make the same mistake twice, don't worry."

You flinched, vehemence catching you offguard. It was no secret Arthur had a mean streak—it's what made him Dutch's top enforcer. You'd witnessed it firsthand, but never leveled _at_ you. 

"Nor will I. Next time Dutch wants you to go beating folks bloody I'll let him do it instead of sticking my neck out for you," you said, cringing at the waver in your voice.

"What the hell's _that_ supposed to mean?" Arthur demanded.

"Doesn't matter now, what's done is done. Goodnight, Mr. Morgan." 

He spoke, but you hardly heard him as you walked past, veering out of his reach. The guitar notes were louder now, slow and sad as Javier belted a song you didn't know. You hurried towards it, anxious to be in mixed company. 

Heart thumping, you tried and failed to stop the downpour in your head. _You dumb, dumb girl! Getting ideas above your station. How am I supposed to face him after this—sit around the fire and act like nothing's wrong?_

"Fuck," you yowled, wincing as a branch scraped your cheek. 

Batting it away, you emerged from the forest to find Karen waiting near the edge. She hurried over, eyes zeroed in on your face. 

"_____, you alright?" 

"Fine," you answered, touching a finger to the scratch. 

She hesitated, curls bouncing as she leaned in for a better look. "Arthur...he didn't—"

"Nah, my fool ass caught the side of a tree. He's a lot of things, but he ain't that. Horses still ready to go?"

"Yup. Tilly's watering hers now, but besides that they should be fine."

You looked past Karen, spying Arthur coming through the trees. Your breath shallowed when he caught your eye, scowl softening. A moment later he was gone, shoulders melting into the dark as he swaggered back to camp. 

"Good, because we're leaving tonight." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all asked for angst with your smut...right? Anyway, bit of plot taking shape here. Not sure how far it'll go honestly, but I'm willing to play around with it for a bit!


	6. Chapter 6

The ride to Saint Denis was mercifully quiet.

Which isn't to say Tilly and Karen didn't speak—both complained about night riding despite relishing the chance to openly brandish their pistols. All three of you hooted and hollered, hearts pounding as horse hooves thundered the dark earth. You sang songs, swapped stories, even kept watch while Karen pissed behind a homestead.

Neither of them brought up the men. 

For this you were grateful, half expecting them to ride you about the change in plans once you were clear of camp. Tilly rolled her eyes and Karen sucked her teeth, but neither were unkind about setting off early.

_They're good friends,_ you thought, coughing through a cloud of red dust. 

"Come on, ____," Karen teased as you fanned it away. "Thought you'd be used this climate." 

"I am. Don't mean I have to like it," you pouted, pulling your hat brim lower as you entered Rhodes. 

Morning sun cooked the dew, night chill fast fading. Most folks weren't out yet, light hardly past 7 AM in the sky.  It was meager comfort. Lemoyne was home, but you believed in haunted houses. 

Too often you'd heard stories among your mother's people in Lagras—raiders, men with ropes come to start trouble.

" _Keep your head down if you alone, girl—folks ain't right friendly past the city. It's simple,starts with a hard look, then a muttered threat as you pass by. Next comes a night visit,"_ your Aunt Mary admonished. 

_"Common folk. Not fitting for a woman fit to join city society,"_ Barr scoffed, frowning at the step-clap hymns your kin taught you.

_More like lifesavers._ They filled knowledge gaps you'd have never gotten on your own, showed you the safe way to be brown in a sea of pale. It's why you and Tilly filed silently behind Karen, who puffed out her chest and scowled at onlookers.

"Let me handle this, least 'til we clear Rhodes," she said, taking point after a man spat at your horse.

"Gladly," you breathed, keeping a ready hand on your gun. 

Thankfully you had no need of it, attracting little trouble as you neared Saint Denis. Bringing up the rear, you galloped ahead of the girls, familiar paths returning as you drew close to the city. Tilly and Karen kept up, no worse for wear as you spied a towering marquis sign. 

"Feel good to be back?" Tilly asked, pulling up alongside you.

"Feels...something," you answered, sparing a look at the open country.

Lagras was only a forty minute ride from here. You could show up, hug your Aunt Mary and tell her all that ailed you. _"I fell in with some bad men, Auntie...fell in love with 'em too."_ She'd scold you, beg you repent and abandon all hope of your outlaws seeing reason. 

The thought was soothing, but you knew trouble's siren song would engulf you again.

For better or worse, Dutch's boys had poisoned your well.

Aware Karen and Tilly were following, you donned a smile and headed for Bastille Saloon. Settling in was easy enough—you booked a suite through Friday morning, complete with nightly bath service and garment care for the three of you. It was pricey, but worth it to live in luxury's lap.

Karen whistled as she entered the room. "Wow,____, never knew you liked such fine things."

"'Live the part to act the part,' ain't that what you said?" you quizzed, opening the balcony windows for fresh air. 

Three ornately-made beds lined the back wall, curtains drawn in a great canopy above them. Across, a wide basin and mirror for washing up. 

"Damn right," said Tilly, flopping onto the middle bed. "All the laundry we do, it's only fair we get to live nice sometimes." 

And live nice you did. You hailed for a bath after unpacking your things, glad to wash the red clay out of your hair. Exhaustion settled on you soon after, pulling you to bed even as the girls invited you to explore the city.   

Sleep fell on you faster than summer rain, tearing a yawn from you as you settled under a silk duvet.

"Wake me when it's time to work."

══════════════

Sometime later a hand jostled you, accompanied by the scent of boozy berries. _Karen._

"It's time."

Outside Saint Denis was alight with lamps and traffic, nightlife in full swing.    

You groaned and got to your feet.

Both your friends were halfway dressed, Karen in signature red tafetta with a low neck and black lace bodice; Tilly opted for a violet gown with puff sleeves and a voluminous bustle. They fussed over their respective hairstyles, twisting blonde and black strands into neat buns or cascading curls. 

Groggy, you slipped on your petticoat and began lacing your corset. Tilly hopped to your aid while Karen fetched your gown, a cap-sleeve sky blue number with emproidered flowers to conceal the scoop neck. 

"Why didn't you wake me earlier? I slept the day away," you whined, gasping as Tilly pulled a lace tight.

"You looked..."

"Happy," Karen said, butting in as she dabbed Molly's rouge on her cheeks and lips. "We didn't want to wake ya, 'specially if you were gonna be in a mood."

"What kind of mood?" you bristled, sure they'd talked about you while you were asleep.

Tilly tapped your shoulder and nodded for you to dress.

"Don't get your panties in a twist,____. Surly or not, we like you the same. But you can't lie to us, not when we're about to risk our hides. Promise you'll be honest for a bit?"

You paused, dress halfway on. In the mirror you saw their faces, amused and somewhat wary.

"People been askin' me that a lot lately. What d'you want to know?" you sighed, turning to fasten the back.

Karen was on you faster than you could blink. "Did you have 'em both?" 

_Figures_. It's the first thing you'd ask too. 

"Just Arthur," you answered, parsing your unruly hair into a high bun. Tilly shot Karen a "told you so" look.

"Then what's eating John?" Tilly had found her voice.

You shrugged, pinning a few wisps in place with your mother's pearl bobby pins.

"Guess _I_ am. The night me and Arthur...well, it was supposed to be me and John." 

It was Karen's turn to look triumphant.

Both spoke, this time in sync. "What happened?"

"I uh...panicked. Kissed him, told him I loved him, then _fled_ like a schoolgirl. We ain't been right since." 

"I'd say!" said Karen, stooping in front of your face. "Jesus,____. If I it were anyone else I'd call you cruel."

She sponged glossy red on your mouth, dappled black gel along your brow. Chestnut brown gloss slicked your lids, lending your face a dewy look.  You stepped back, impressed with her handiwork.

"But..."  

You hadn't had many girl friends in your life, those you did restricted to passing visits at the shop or during holidays. Scary as gang living was, it netted you the company of folks from all walks.

" _But_ you aren't. You just have no man sense," Tilly joked, handing you a knife as she tucked one in a garter on her leg. You followed suit, hiking up your skirt to stash the blade. "We're here to help you practice. You all set?"

Quickly you took stock:

Dress. _Check._  

Made-up face. _Check_. 

Stashed pistol and dagger for easy access. _Check_. 

_Head clear of lust for dumb cowboys?_

You waved the last one away, sure you could flirt and pick a few pockets without making a buffoon of yourself.  Besides, your girls were here to back you up. Swishing your hips, you offered an arm to both of them.

Bolstered on either side by a femme fatale, you walked your group out the door and through the crowded upstairs hall.

Below was Saint Denis, wealthy gentlemen crowding the bar like turkeys in a quay. A predatory grin stretched your cheeks, widening even as you tried to wrangle it. Karen and Tilly had the same, giddily waiting for your cue.

"Ladies, let's make ourselves some money." 

══════════════ 

Turns out robbing is harder with liquor in your blood.

The girls were having a blast, hardly paying you mind as they worked the room. Karen leaned on the piano, swaying as a group of older gentleman surveyed her; knowing her, she'd clean them out once they invited her back to their table. Tilly targeted the dock men, playing dominoes and raking in profit. 

And you...well you hugged the bar, nervous to put your skills to the test. 

A few men approached, but you waved them off. 

" _Do what you're comfortable with,"_ they told you. Karen was good at working a crowd, Tilly at sharking.

You were good at spotting whales. 

Barr often had his wealthy friends over, inviting you to sit among high society and learn "how proper folks act." You suspected it was about demonstrating his charitable nature, but you never complained about the night off. Several of his associates were unattached, often complimenting you or bringing you little trinkets from their travels. The _attached_ ones' wives weren't happy to see you showered with attention, but you took it for the harmless gesture it was.

You were "exotic," your life with Barr highly unusual. It wasn't often people your color were in the _room_ , much less  part of the conversation. These men didn't truly want you, just to unfurl you and see what made you tick.

_Let them try,_ you thought, spotting a candidate across the bar. Everything about him screamed money— well-dressed, well-spoken, well-mannered.  _Can’t be from here._

Through eavesdropping you'd learned he was a banker come to tour the South for investors. He was liberal, spoke of mixed salons with DuBois and similar types. He thanked the servers and tipped the girl who brought the oysters he ordered.  

You shivered—dark-hair with a trimmed beard and tailored black waistcoat, he moved with the confidence of someone who always got their way. Right then, that meant _you_  as he locked eyes and nodded.

Normally you'd use the attention to your advantage, but Arthur left you raw.

Nervy thoughts fell over you like summer rain:  _Am I dressed alright? Is the rouge too much? Oh god, what if I can’t—_  

"Bold choice for a lady," he said, nodding at your glass of absinthe. “Trying to forget?”

You startled, unaware he'd slid into the seat beside you. Quieting your thumping heart, you batted your eyes and regrouped. 

"For _go_ actually. Don't you know absinthe _keeps_  folks from silly decisions, sir?"  

"That so? First time I’ve heard of it," he answered, taking your hand. You watched as he kissed it, partially swayed by his smug smirk. 

“Can’t make a fool of yourself when you’re passed out from drink,” you joked, hoping the cheeky smile hid your blush. 

“And all the debauchery that comes before?”  

You winked. “Afraid I don’t have a cure for that.” 

Dark And Handsome held out a hand. “Alexander Martin at your service.” 

“Hazel Wills,” you lied, alias slipping out like water from a tap. 

It felt like slipping into a new set of clothes. _Hazel_ was mysterious and confident, able to wrap men around her finger. _Hazel_ didn't dream of ranches with men who bloodied their hands for a living.  

"Lovely to meet you, Hazel," Alexander said, smirk all but calling your bluff. 

You held fast, daring him to call you a liar.  

He didn’t, nodding at Tilly and Karen instead. "Those gals yours?" 

You froze, heckles raised. Alexander laughed, hands up in surrender. 

"I mean no harm. Way I see it, if an old man's dumb enough to think _she_  wants their bed company, they deserve what they get. And your other friend, she's just uncommon good at dominoes—that ain't against the law." 

Instinct told you to run. You squashed it.

 In your periphery you spied Tilly and Karen, both looking for a signal. You gestured for them to hold. If anything you could declare this an elaborate joke and flee.

"What, like me and those women are a pack of vixens? You've got quite the imagination," you husked, leaning closer to him as you sipped. 

Alexander chuckled. "Always had a mind for stories."

"I'd say. And in this _story_ of yours, just who am I?"

“To me, a bit of arm candy. I’ll be frank, _Hazel_ —Saint Denis is...different than what I’m used to," he answered, lowering his voice. “The families here are...well, hungry. Of the five investors I’ve visited, three of them have asked me to court their daughters.”

A frown tugged your lip, catching you between outrage and intrigue. _Do Arthur and John think the same?_  For a moment you despaired, wondering what—if anything—you truly meant to either of them. Aware this wasn’t the time, you focused on a reply.

“At least you’re not a liar, though I can’t imagine how three rich families wanting you to marry into them is a problem, much less one I can solve.”

Alexander turned pensive, unmoved for a moment as he watched you. Playing with a lock of hair, you squirmed, sure this was the _strangest_ request you’d ever had at a bar. Still you let it ride, grateful for a distraction while you contemplated grabbing another absinthe.  

“You look like a smart girl, not prone to gossip like many others I’ve come across in this city.” 

“Never had use for idle chatter.”  

You hitched as he leaned in, hyperaware of everything: the other patrons’ stares, Tilly and Karen as they raked in cash; even the red damask wallpaper leapt out in relief. Your mind raced with the possibilities, each worse than the last.

_Is he building something in town? Is he a lawman? Does he hunt people for sport?_

All of it rattled in your head until Alexander spoke. 

“Then I’m sure you’d understand if I told you my... _predilection_  that wouldn’t make me an agreeable husband.”

Your brow wrinkled. _That could mean anything._  In your experience, not many men _were_ agreeable husbands. They lied and cheated much as any single man, evidenced by the married men who visited Barr’s home on poker nights. Though he didn’t permit the act in his house, the shopkeep paid working girls to flirt and coo on his friends’ laps while they played cards and drank brandy. 

It was largely innocent, though you knew their wives would be hideous had they found out. For a man—even one as “good” as those—one to cordon himself off as “disagreeable”...well, it likely wasn’t good news.

“I’m not sure I follow,” you said, hoping he’d shed some light. 

You were supposed to be robbing, and there were easier targets at the counter. But curiosity had the better of you—at least until you figured out his game. 

Whatever it was, Alexander seemed put out, reddening and scratching idly at his nose. His voice dropped even further, gone from a amiable whisper to a skittish hiss as he begged you to understand.  

“Though appreciative of the art form, I’m afraid a woman couldn’t satisfy the _conditions_ of my attraction.”

_Oh._  A tentative answer leapt out at you, sagging your shoulders with relief. 

Lowering your voice to a conspiratory whisper, you confirmed. “But a gentleman could?”

He nodded.  

You smiled, bleeding all the warmth you had into it. Sure it was uncommon (and hated by country folk), but this was Saint Denis. Dandies were as much a part of the landscape as Spanish moss on swamp trees. Though largely undiscussed, the sight of men holding hands at a salon—or a smart-suited lady and her plus one—weren’t unheard of. Liberal as he was, Barr had a few such folks over for meals. While the particulars of it escaped you, the people themselves were lovely and kind as anyone else. _No need to treat ‘em different._  

“Don’t tell me I’ve frightened you.” 

You were pulled from thought to see Alexander’s face wrung with worry. His eyes darted about as if he expected you to climb atop the counter and announce it. Reaching out, you laid a hand on his arm. 

“Quite the opposite,” you chuckled, feeling him soothe under your fingers. “I’m actually relieved. I half expected you to tell me you were attracted to cows or hens.”  

It was Alexander’s turn to laugh. “Dear god no, I’m a dandy, not a degenerate.”

“And I’m assuming a lady at your side would ward off undue inquiry about your intention to marry?”

Alexander nodded. “Doubly so if she’s of what they call ‘lesser heritage.’ Flax-haired heiresses rarely want to be involved with someone who’s courted outside of their own.” 

“Fair enough,” you said, certain he’d done this in his previous travels. His speech was practiced—words hopeful but cautious, like a man determining the price of a horse.”And if I were to agree to this farce—be your ‘arm candy’ for a few days...”

_Might as well take advantage._

All in all it was a safe bet—Alexander could move about the city undetected and you could make easy money. You knew Saint Denis better than anyone; if anything went wrong you could call on Charles or John to help trake him out.

_Or end him yourself,_  you thought, remembering the weapons on your thigh. If the mischief on Alexander’s face was any indicator, it wouldn’t come to that. 

“I’d be more than generous.”

From his waistcoat came a fat wad of bills. He hardly batted an eye as he split the stack, holding the cash out to you. You scoffed, waiting for him to call bullshit. He didn’t. Aware of bartender’s eyes on you, you accepted gracefully, all the while wondering just what you’d gotten yourself into. 

“Consider that a retainer—you’ll get the rest before I catch my train on Friday. Now, as for tomorrow, I expect you to meet me here at 10 AM sharp. Can you do that?”

Hailing another round, you turned to him and spoke. “With the sum you gave me it’s the least I can do. What are we doing anyway?”

An arch smile tugged Alexander’s lip. 

“Tell me Miss Wills, have you ever been to the theater?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s been in my docs for a minute, but life got in the way. And not the usual “in the way” with work deadlines or a packed schedule. I’m talking two moves, a breakup, a job search, and a major influx of work at my current job...all in the past month or so. Suffice to say I’ve got enough on my plate to keep me busy. 
> 
> So here ya go. Not sure when I’ll have the next chapter (because I’m not sure where I’ll even *be* next week), but I’m going to try and have it for you guys soon...this fic’s kind of become my guilty pleasure.


	7. Chapter 7

Tilly towered above you on the bed, feet sinking into the duvet as she dug _another_ pin into your tight plaits. “You look beautiful.” 

“I feel like a peacock,” you said, tilting your head for a better look.

Karen and Tilly grilled you relentlessly once Alexander departed, pressing until you divulged everything. What followed was something out of a slapstick show.

_“Ain’t no man giving you all that cash for nothing,”_   _Karen sniped, scowling as the three of you trailed his silver horse through town. Tilly nodded her agreement._

_“It’s not nothing, Kar. He needs me to—“_

_“I know what he_ told  _you he needs,_____,” Karen snapped, turning a fiery eye on you. “I’m telling you I want to see it for myself. You’re not getting killed on my watch.”_

_You paled at the ferverence in her words, had half a mind to ask whether someone had before._

_The three of you clambered up the fire escape of an adjacent building as Alexander went up to his hotel room._ _There you stayed, chilly as you scoped his nighttime routine._

_Hours revealed nothing of note. Alexander dressed for bed, read by lamplight and ordered a meal._ _Karen only relented when he settled beneath the covers._

_“See? No surprises.”_

_Tilly patted your shoulder._ _“____, there are always surprises.”_  

By the time you got back to the Bastille it was 2 AM—enough time to catch a wink and get dressed. You did just that, schooling your sleep-marred face into something presentable. 

Alternating between lacing your corset and jamming bacon into your mouth, you withered under Tilly’s glare.  

“What?” you shrugged.

“You’re getting paid to act like a lady.”

“Not for another hour I’m not.”

Where your blue gown boasted seduction, this pale gold screamed elegance. Square-necked with white lace at the shoulders, it lent you a cherubic appearance that was furthered by your reddish-brown lips and thick crown braid. You left your remaining curls free, tucking the dense cloud behind your ears.

“At least you look the part,” said Karen, handing you a clutch. “Here.”

Dubiously you accepted, huffing when you spied a bottle of aconite inside. 

“Can’t ever have too many ways to kill a man.”  

══════════════

Your day with Alexander was off to a good start. He insisted on a sit-down breakfast, piling your plate with scones and jam. Though you knew it was for show—that he was making animated conversation solely for the sake of drawing chagrin from suitors—it was nice to be doted on for a bit.  

You bantered back, the two of you striking a cadence as the upper echelon bristled.

“My my,____, is all of Saint Denis as  _sweet_ as you?” Alexander purred, kissing your hand as you fed him a bit of your pastry.  

You tamped the urge to laugh, batting your eyes instead. Sipping daintily from your cup, you looked around at the tables—many with eavesdropping belles—and spoke.  

“Hush, Alex,” you said, voice laced with all the syrup you could muster. “I won’t allow such wicked talk.” 

Alexander hardly missed a beat. “Then what of last night?” 

“A pleasurable mistake,” you said, sure to raise your voice in mock outrage. That it garnered shocked whispers was a bonus. 

From there Alexander toted you to Clother’s Mile, making a show of marveling at the latest silks and damasks. 

In many ways, the farce felt natural. Most of your exchanges with the gang revolved around jobs or bullets or supplies. Brief and faux though it was, you relished the opportunity to pretend at the lady marriage would’ve made you.

Arms full of bags, Alexander turned to you. “Well my darling, I believe it’s time for the opera.” 

You beamed, genuinely excited for the prospect of both art and a cool theater. Though far from Lemoyne’s worst, Saint Denis’ stew of people, horses, and gulf air made the place soupy.  As a native you were starting to sweat, much less Alexander, who’d shed his damp sportscoat.

“I can’t wait,” you said, relaxing as you took his arm. Across the street you spied Tilly reading a suffrage pamphlet. Karen stood to her right, pretending to buy cigarettes from a stall. 

_First job my ass._  You wondered if Dutch expected the girls would take point once you chose them for the op. Though the idea of chaperoning stung, you understood. The gang had already lost so much, even before you joined. 

_Last thing he needs is another corpse,_  you thought, paranoia poking through your good-day haze.  _Or someone following us._

You made a note to run Alexander’s pockets when you could. All the while the question lingered:  _Can you kill him if it comes to that?_

You’d seen the gang do it often enough—gun down the lone survivor of a O’Driscoll raid, beat a hostage within an inch of their life for information. Usually John or Arthur did the dirty work, though a few times you’d seen Karen take over. 

No matter who handled it, the iron stink of blood and wheezing cry of  _“please”_  never ceased to haunt you. The thought of inflicting that same punishment made you recoil, though it was little use.  

Far as you tried to outrun them, Dutch’s words always seized you. 

_“Ain’t no do-overs once you make that call, ____.”_ It was the wisest thing he ever said, swiftly diminished by a request for hair pomade. 

Even so, import was clear.  _Whether for reward, revenge, or reputation, most everyone with half a brain wants you dead._

“...Hazel? Are you alright?” 

Alexander’s hand on your shoulder shook you. You’d meandered to Saint Denis’ downtown, walking the manicured garden on Central Street. Shaking your head clear, you answered him. 

“I’m fine, just the heat getting to me.“

That satisfied him, his arm looping around your shoulder. “Alas, there are no nunneries, so I’ll get thee to the theater instead.” 

You nodded, won over by his gentle hand. Honestly, you understood why the debutantes wanted him so badly—not only was he easygoing, but his trend toward sharp humor was charming. Combine that with money and every woman in the city would want a shot.

“Sounds wonderful,” you answered. 

The opera house wasn’t far now, just a block past the Saint Denis Hotel. You preened, holding your head high as whispers and eyes followed the pair of you. Panning the street, you took familiar inventory: bustling saloon and habadashery, post office, then up ahead to...

“Arthur?” you mouthed in silent shock. 

Your footsteps skidded to a halt. It wasn’t uncommon for him to stay at a hotel, especially if Dutch had him scoping the area for jobs. But there was something _very_  wrong here. 

First, he was meandering, walk devoid of its usual thunder. He strolled down the steps, practically _bouncing_  on his toes.

Worse were his rumpled clothes, which again, weren’t suspicious given the life. But this was  _different,_  his linen shirt bunched in spots like someone had gripped it. Tremulous you went on, not wanting to alarm Alexander. You gagged once you were close enough, spying the suckled splotchy bruises on his neck. 

The realization gutted you.  _Tired of me that quickly, Morgan?_

It got infinitely worse just as you suppressed the urge to bawl.  A woman exited the hotel, approaching him with the confidence befitting a lover. You gasped, instantly aware of who she was. 

Though you’d never seen her in person, stories made her infamous among the Van der Linde gang.

_“Little thing always thought she was prettier than us,”_ said Grimshaw, words laced with venom. “ _Women who never work always do.”_ You chalked it up to wine-exacerbated bitterness. 

Still, you never forgot Grimshaw’s description, if only because it sounded unreal:  _“Tan skin, tumblin’ black hair, dark eyes with her button nose turned up at the world.”_

_Mary Linton._

You paled. You shrank. You shifted on your feet, wanting desperately to run.

Alexander neared them all the while, oblivious to your changed demeanor. You thought to avert the crisis—ask for sweets at the confectionery, jump in front of a carriage— _anything_ to halt it. 

But Arthur had turned, face contorting in shock, then ire as he looked between you and Alexander. You looked at Mary, then him, unable to hide the sneer curling your lip. Hurt outweighed the rage, choking you as your brain waded through a mire of ugly:

_Did he moan for her? Did he empty inside of her? Did he say “I love you?”_ —over and over like Dutch’s gramophone until...

“Afternoon, ____,” Arthur greeted, challenge bright in his eyes. “Who’s your friend?”

Several strains of panic coalesced—Alexander’s shock at hearing your real name, Mary’s caustic gaze, and your own whirriing brain; atop it all was oppressive summer, heat jamming humid fingers down your throat.

You managed a shaky inhale, doing your best to ignore Arthur. 

A few days away had transformed him completely. Gone was his usual shaggy hair, swapped for a slicked fade; he wore a red leather vest, his linen shirt and tweed trousers like something from an atelier. Even his beard was different, close-cropped and tapered as opposed to the home shaves he donned in camp.

“This is my friend, Alexander Martin. Alexander, this is my associate, Arthur Morgan and his...lady friend. Miss Linton I presume?” you said, hoping the words didn’t sound as strangled as they felt. 

“Right you are. Seems I’m famous amongst your friends, Arthur,” said Mary, tepid smirk hardly budging her lips. 

She watched you closely, calculating stare switching between you and Arthur.

_He’s nothing to you,_  you persisted, if only to survive the exchange.

Alexander tipped his head, the picture of civility. 

“Nice to make your acquaintance. I’m in Saint Denis on business and Hazel’s been kind enough to show me around. We’re on our way to the opera matinee if you’d like to join? Bizet’s Carmen if I recall correctly.”

“Hazel?” Arthur asked, sidestepping Alexander’s invitation. 

“Not everyone calls me by my _middle_ name, Mr. Morgan. I trust you and Ms. Linton had a...spirited night?” you said, injecting ice into your words.  

You clung to Alexander despite the farce, glad for something to hold.

Since your night in Valentine, Arthur had invaded every aspect of your being. Now, to see he’d invaded someone _else_  without so much as a warning...it ached something fierce. 

The outlaw ducked his head, almost ashamed when Mary squeezed his shoulder. 

“We had a lovely time...exploring the city,” she chimed, all too pleased with herself. 

You steeled against the embarrassment flooding your cheeks, forced yourself to look her in the eye.

“Oh I’m sure. You’re talking to a native Saint Denian here—ain’t a corner of this city I haven’t _explored_ ,” you bit, glad when her eyes bugged. 

_Serves you right._  Though petty wasn’t your speed, you refused to be made a fool of by anyone— _especially_ some farmer’s daughter.

Arthur snapped his head up, levity lightening his dark stare. You scowled at the smirk on his face, resenting the mere _idea_  of him trying to foster camaraderie. Squshing the longing in your chest, you tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. 

“You must excuse us, I’d hate to be late to the show. Mr. Martin, shall we get on?”

“Indeed,” said Alexander, donning his million-dollar smile. “Mr. Morgan, Miss Linton, nice to have met you. We should do it again soon.”  

As you shuffled past Arthur and Mary, you wrangled all the hurt and lust and feeling into a box, resolving only to crack it once you were back at the hotel. Following Alexander into the theater, you flitted past ticketing up to the swanky velvet booth on the mezzanine flank. Alexander busied himself with various city bigwigs, all of them regarding you curiously. 

Conscious of the job you were paid to do, you cooed over him, routine of suggestive smiles and feathery touches mindless enough to keep you from trouble. 

_Pet, pet, grin,_  you chanted, joints clicking and muscles locking like the gears of a clock.

On it went, false contact and forced interest until warningnotes floated from the orchestra pit.  

Alexander turned to you as the last guest left your booth, shrewd smirk tugging his lips.  

“Finally a moment alone, ____,” he said, mention of your real name like a dip in winter water. 

You froze, momentarily stunned by the dilemma it presented. _Thanks, Arthur_.

Then again, he likely hadn’t considered the impact. Despite being “Hoagie MacIntosh” to the public, Dutch regularly used the gang’s real names in casual conversation.

Arthur was nothing if not Dutch’s son.

“Hazel, please. I much prefer it,” you insisted, watching as a primavera scene unfurled onstage. 

Fabric flowers cascaded from the curtains, stage lit in pinks and yellows as Micaela and Don Jose belted their first lines.  Though the swirl of soprano-tenor melody wasn’t lost on you, all of your attention was fixed on deflecting Alexander. 

In the span of an hour he’d gone from polite to predatory. Far from carnal, the edge was secular, almost _mercenary_ as he puffed with foreign authority. At first you assumed it was the presence of outside company—especially among stern-faced coal barons—but it persisted even as the opera below progressed.

Under the guise of crossing your legs, you felt for the dagger strapped to your calf. 

Alexander touched his mouth to your ear, words poison like Javier’s knives. “There’s no need to hide, ____. Not when you’ve made this the easiest manhunt of my career.” 

Panic’s seized your throat, robbing you of air as your brain caught up to the proceedings. Though she wasn’t there, Tilly’s words haunted you. _“There are always surprises.”_

You weren’t expecting one so deadly. 

_I_ _t doesn’t have to be,_  you reasoned, intent on ferreting the whole matter before acting. 

“Who ever for?” you quizzed, trying to remain cavalier as your foot nudged the blade from its holster. “I told you, I’m—”   

 

 

“___ _____, wanted for the murder of one Francis Barr,” he said, rattling off your full name with ease. 

From his jacket came a folded “Wanted” poster, complete with your name and a vague composite sketch. They’d gotten many details wrong, but with your hair out of your face it was close enough.  

_Damn plaits,_  you thought, clutching at the braids.

_Wanted: Wanton Murderess in Connection with the French Quarter O’Driscoll Murder.  Reward $700, Dead or Alive._

Alexander capitalized on your silence, continuing before you could reply. “Clever really. From what I heard you derailed four convoys to clear those  posters out of Lemoyne, but missed the _one_  coming from Flatneck in Hanover. Lucky thing too, or I would’ve missed out on a jackpot.”  

“Fucking _Flatneck_ ,” you swore, almost inaudibly as the reality rushed you. 

He could bring you in. He could _kill_  you. He could let his associates have their fun then do any combination of the two. He could _own_ you.

Terror was your first instinct, soon superceded by logic as you remembered Dutch’s advice on getting out of tight spots. 

_Take stock and look for an opening._ Forcing your breaths to slow, you considered your options. Alexander likely expected fear, or at the very least remorse. You played along, if only to gauge how much shit you were in.  

“You’re here to arrest me for the murder of my own father? As if I’d kill the man who’d given me the world?

“Miss _____, I’m not here to debate the legitimacy of the claim. From what I heard, you blew all the O’Driscolls’ brains out before shooting Barr point-blank. Shit doesn’t make sense to me, but I chase who the Agency tells me to.” 

_Agency?_  The coincidence was too horrible to register, stomach threatening to expel your scones. 

“You’re a Pinkerton,” you whispered, unable to keep the horror from your voice. 

The gang told you tales—ruthless men with badges and unlimited influence hellbent on extinguishing what remained of free life. Never did you think you’d encounter one in person, much less spend a leisurely day with him.

You nudged your calf again, blade toppling from the leather holster. Careful not to cause a commotion, you slid the dagger around to your right side. Onstage, the first words of “Habanera” tickled your ears.

“Correct my dear. Amazing what people let you get away with when you’re posing as a banker—damn near spill their guts to get a shot at your money,” Alexander tutted, feline smirk widening. You recoiled at the aquiline nose on his fine-boned face, wanting nothing more than to slam it with the heel of your palm. _Patience._

He droned on, smug words like bark against skin. 

“And that retainer I gave you is proof of your collusion with outlaws. Now I must confess, we were wrong about _which_  set. See, the agency thought you ran with the O’Drisolls, but that didn’t sit quite right. No offense, but Colm’s boys like folks that look...well, like _Colm_. But that lucky run-in with Mr. Morgan clinched it—you’re one of Dutch’s girls, though I suspect you’d rather be—”  

Whipping your knife off the ground, you plunged the blade into Alexander’s chest. He wailed, eyes sliding from your face to the blooming red staining his shirt. 

You went to cover his mouth, but the opera’s swelling chorus swallowed the sound. 

“ _Si tu ne m’aime pas, je t’aime!”_  they sang, echo cascading as the melody pitched higher. 

You twisted the knife, sure you connected with something vital as it  _squelched_  beneath your slippery fingers. Satisfied (and wholly horrified by the proceedings), you retracted the blade, cleaning your hands on Alexander’s jacket.  

His breaths had turned to wheezes, then sputters as you ran his pockets for anything useful. From them you took the now-bloody wanted poster, along with the rest of his cash, pocketwatch, badge, and notebook, hoping they’d be useful. 

You fled, posing Alexander upright before departing the booth. The halls were dark as not to disrupt the show, granting you cover as you felt for the stairwell. Ducking your head to hide passerby, you slunk toward a promising door and bolted two flights to the bottom, every inch of your body alight with pinpricks as a constant _“What next? What next?”_ flooded your brain.

Taking a moment to breathe, you examined your hands in the low light and caught your reflection in a frame. 

You were harried and breathless but otherwise okay. Blood caked your fingernails, but no one would see unless they drew too close. Satisfied you’d raise no alarms, you strolled through the lobby, onto the street, and booked it toward the Bastille, waiting all the while for sirens to sound. 

By the time you made it back to Clother’s Mile, constables streamed toward the theater like ants, black caps bobbing as the first alarms sounded. You breathed deep, taking solace against a wall as the adrenaline finally ebbed.

Gravity sucked you under like a riptide, senses overwhelmed by the sheer _realization_ of what you did. 

_I killed a Pinkerton_.

Your thumbs twitched against your finger pads to feel for blood that wasn’t there. Your eyes darted about, bicep aching from the force you used to pierce  Alexander’s chest. It was enough to bring you to tears, shaky breaths teetering on sobs as you gripped a nearby pillar for support.  

No doubt Alexander’s death would haunt you, though that wasn’t what threatened to tear the flimsy sutures you’d sewn over your heart.

_He’s fucking Mary...again._  You heaved, tears streaking your face. It was stupid, it was _dangerous_  given the pedestrians who stared, but you couldn’t stop.

You _gave_ yourself to him—wholly. Not only your body but your truths. And you gave _nobody_  your truths. 

He’d seen them, taken them,  praised you for them... _and threw them out_ for someone you could never hope to match. 

Tears blurred your vision, burned your cheeks as they pooled salt in your mouth.  You weren’t sure how long you stayed there, only that the sudden tap on your shoulder had you ready to strike. 

“Hey relax, it’s only us,” said Tilly, taking you by the shoulders. You calmed, fists resting at your side. You couldn’t bring yourself to unclench them, nails carving half moons in your palms.  

“What are you doing here?” you asked, still shaky. Behind her was Karen who watched you with a deep red frown.  

“Making sure you don’t get yourself killed,___,” Karen supplied, giving you a once over. “We were waiting outside the opera house and saw you leave like a bat out of hell. Everything alright?

You took stock of them, floored by just how good they’d been to you. Karen opted for her gown from the night before while Tilly went for the twill jacket and yellow skirt she wore in camp. Honey browns and glacier blues scanned you for damage, their brows wrinkled as they waited on word. 

_Only what’s necessary,_  you thought, determined not to tell them everything. They weren’t ready for (nor did they truly need to hear about) what’d transpired between you and Arthur. Resolving to keep the worst of it to yourself, you relayed the facts.

“Alexander was a Pinkerton,” you said, panting the words as exhaustion took hold. You took the arm Karen offered, ignoring her triumphant _“hmph._ ” 

“He was after me for an old bounty, told me taking money from him meant I was involved in outlaw activity...then he pinned me with Dutch.” 

“How?” piped Tilly. “The only way he would’ve known was—”

“He was trailing us, showed me posters for you and Karen from robberies y’all did before,” you interjected. You brushed away the guilt, unwilling to broach Arthur while his name still sent you to pieces. “So I took care of him, then took everything he had.” 

You beckoned them closer to you so no one passing could see.

“Hoy shit, ____, you weren’t kiddin’—that’s a ton of money,” Karen said, struggling to keep her voice down. 

Tilly was more interested in the notebook, flipping through it to see if there was anything of note. Satisfied, they handed everything back with a single question. 

“Well, what now? Room’s paid up til tomorrow, and the law don’t know it was you,” said Karen. 

Beneath the hurt and hollow breath you found an answer. There was nothing left for you in Saint Denis, all of it either tied up with Barr or Alexander or of late, Arthur. What’d once been your home was now patches of scorched earth stitched together. 

The French Quarter reminded you of Barr and Maison Fine, its dazzling white and modest porches where you spent most of your youth; Clother’s Mile and Mission Point were tainted by Alexander’s pomp. And Downtown, well, that was now claimed by Arthur.  

In time you knew the sting would fade, that you’d be able to return with little-to-no memory of the hurt bound up in these streets.  

For now, you had a single desire. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact - this chapter got delayed because plot is hard and I got tied up writing a future John scene. But I promised myself I’d finish it this weekend so yay for that much. In other news, I landed my *dream* job and am in the middle of moving countries for it (long story, but it’s a good thing). 
> 
> This past month I’ve seen airports more than I’ve seen my own apartment. I miss my friends and my love and familiar places, but this whole big change bit promises to be amazing if I keep at it. So it’s good. I’m good. Hope you are too.


	8. Chapter 8

You’d never seen Dutch’s concern before. His bluster and suprise, sure, but never _this_. He resembled the Punch & Judy puppets you’d seen in picture show booths: eyes nearly popped from their sockets, mustache wiggling, mouth stuck in a big fat “O.” His hair was trashed, fingers tugging lank locks as you spoke.

 

“You did _what_?”

Sighing, you attempted another retelling. “I told you, Dutch—I killed—”

“I know what you _told_ me, ____. I’m just having a hard time believing it,” he said, clutching his head. “You say this Pinkerton man, Martin, tracked you and the girls to a hotel, then propositioned you to be his...companion?”

The skepticism in Dutch’s voice wasn’t lost on you, nor was Hosea’s furrowed brow. There was no malice in their appraisal, just incredulity that bordered on admiration. For the first time in the hour since they’d called you into Dutch’s tent, the thought dawned on you: _I did good_.

At the very least you did useful. Hosea pored over Alexander’s notebook, combing it for details that he copied to his own journal; Dutch took a shine to the Pinkerton badge, intent on forging himself a fake ID.

“Yes, for show. He favored men and didn’t wish to be courted by southern belles. Even after he revealed his intentions, that much remained true. 

It was Hosea’s turn to ask questions, the silver outlaw’s slight smile putting you at ease. Of all the elders he was your favorite, often bringing you books or asking you along on foraging trips. While he could be tiresome— _Just how many strains of ginseng do I truly need to know?_ —you valued the hours he spent imparting his knowledge.

_And wit_ , you thought, sure you saw the same quippy trait in his two sons.

Hosea tugged at the bandana around his neck, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “And you’re sure no one saw you, ____? Not even a stray lawman?” 

“I’m sure. From what I heard, the police are going with ‘politically motivated’ on account of the local families figuring out he wasn’t...like them,” you said, struggling through a yawn.

You hadn’t seen much of Tilly or Karen since returning, Grimshaw leaning on them to complete a backlog of chores. Mary-Beth and Abigail were away to rob a homestead, leaving Jack in the camp’s care until they returned.

How _you_  got stuck looking after the child, you weren’t sure, only that “Auntie ____” was the only person who could get Jack to wash up without any fuss. Though not unpleasant work, the burden of exhaustion had finally caught up. 

“Then all I can say is fine work, ____. Reckless, incredibly stupid, and I better not _ever_  catch you doing it again...but fine work,” he said, shaking your hand not as a lady, but as a colleague.

It was times like this he reminded you of Barr—stern scowl with worry writ across his eyes. You often wondered what the Saint Denis shopkeep would say if he could see you shacked up with this band of thieves. 

_“You and your wicked streak,”_  he often said, his attempts at “reforming” you long abandoned. Between losing the bonnets he bought you for church, feigning ill when it came time to parade you around “proper society,” or hiding when it came time to visit Mama Barr’s maison in Rhodes, Francis learned the best way to deal with you was to grant you relative carte blanche.

From all appearances, Dutch and Hosea were learning the same.

“Thank you, sir. I take it we don’t have to go beating preachers anymore?” you asked, playfully saluting.

Dutch scowled, smirk twitching his mustached lip. “Not today, no. But if it comes down to survivin’—”

“I know, I know—the pack comes first,” you said, reciting the mantra. 

 “Damn right.”

Hosea nodded, patting your shoulder as he held the tent flap open for you.

You beamed, wondering if this was how Arthur and John felt when they brought a haul back to camp.Not even their memory dampered your pride, finally feeling as though _you_ ’d done something good for the gang.  _I could get used to this._

“Take a few days to rest up,” Hosea advised, tapping below his eyes. You mirrored the motion, wincing at the puffy bags beneath your finger. “That adrenaline high’s gonna fade and leave you more tired than you’ve ever been in your life.”

_Too late._

The high had long since ebbed, hollowing you like mealworms in the pulp of a tree. Although Strauss was content to work the ledgers alone, you knew even his industriousness had limits. Even so, you were reluctant to rest. Jack was _so_  happy to have someone to spend time with, and his puppy eyes tricked you into reading him a story, and taking him berry picking, and, and, _and_ —

_Bullshit._ It wasn’t Jack that kept your gritty eyes from shutting for long. Rather it was the prospect of waking to Arthur’s whiskey-rich timbre in camp, all formality with no acknowledgement of who he’d been in Saint Denis.

He was good for that, so avoidant it left you questioning whether a transgression was truly _so_  dire.

Usually there was room for debate: drinking the last bit of camp coffee, or returning from town without spices you’d asked for. This brooked no argument, eking a path of hurt from your toes to the sinew of your eyes.

Sleep would ultimately win, but for now Jack was your shield against inquiry.

“Abigail’s still away, Hosea. Who’s going to keep up with Jack—Grimshaw? Javier? _Micah_?” 

Hosea said nothing, looking over your shoulder to the source of approaching hoofbeats. He turned back, all consternate pity as you turned to see John Marston riding high, deer and several rabbits strapped to his horse. 

You spied Jack running towards the camp corral, bare feet rucking black earth as he spouted a thousand questions: “Have you brought us food, Papa? Did you kill that deer yourself? Micah says you buy them from the store and pass them off as your own...”

Dutch tore your attention away from the tableau, chuckling as he and Hosea made for the treeline. 

“His daddy seems to have it under control.”

 You stood in the midst of the bustling camp, slight sigh passing your lips. _Alone again._

 

══════════════

Alone didn’t mean foolish. 

Your days had a rhythm to them: _w_ _ake, wash, then work with Strauss until Pearson dished dinner._  Freed by Abigail’s absence and aware of John’s attention, you were careful to keep your distance 

When specters threatened the dance—pangs for your old life, the _shunk_  of your blade in Alexander’s chest and depthless bloom of _redredred_ —you called for Tilly and Karen, the latter offering you a nip of laudanum in a pinch. 

In all, it was a fairly standard few days...until John caught up with you.

You were taking a break from the books, endless procession of figures making you crosseyed. Sure, you’d seen messy accounts, incomplete ledgers, and overall shoddy bookkeeping—especially amongst the Van der Lindes—but this was different. 

The camp’s books showed steady contributions from everyone from the elders of Uncle and Hosea, down to the women, and even Reverend Swanson—yet somehow the fund ran at a constant deficit. Even with a generous expense allowance factored in, something was decidedly wrongabout the camp’s cashflow. 

So far it was breadcrumbs—five dollars here, ten there. But it was enough to make you wary. You’d resolved to keep an eye on it until you had enough definite evidence to broach the topic with Strauss.

Munching on a can of peaches you’d nabbed from Pearson’s sweets stash, you hardly noticed John’s presence until his shadow blocked out the May midday sun. 

“Pearson know you took those?” he asked, familiar rasp like soft sand against skin. 

 You paused mid bite, licking a bit of juice from your lip. “No, but I have a feeling you’re gonna tell him unless I give you some.”

John sat across from the cedar you sheltered under, unable to hide a devilish grin. Sunlight made his brown eyes dance, his jaw even sharper against the shadows. You noted the red kerchief around his neck, the crisp dark-wash vest, and freshly polished gunbelt. _Fancy._

You laughed when he flung a faux-penitent hand to his chest; Jack did the same whenever he asked for a piece of candy from Tilly.   _See where the boy gets it from_ _._

“I’d _never_ , but if you’re feeling generous...” 

You held out the can, sidestepping the suggestion. “Take a peach and shut up, Marston.” 

He did, popping a slice in his mouth with a chuckle. You scanned the Hanover camp for prying eyes, grateful most everyone was away on jobs or at rest.

Charles whittled figures from wood, Jack peering over his shoulder in awe; Sean was sleeping off a night of heavy drinking, snores like whistles on the wind. Grimshaw and Karen were two rounds into an intense gin match; Sadie kept Tilly company while she mended shirts; Hosea and Dutch left to go fishing, murmuring about Arthur’s absence as they mounted their horses. 

 Even Strauss was quiet, napping in the tent next to Swanson’s. 

All was still except for your heart. You breathed deep and held it, exhaling only when the rapid pattering slowed to a manageable thump. 

“Jack says you looked after him while Abigail’s been gone,” John said, gaze indiscernible as he inched minutely closer.

John was usually easy to understand, unable to occlude his feelings any more than Dutch could stop fantasizing about the West. Now he was measured, expectant though you had no idea what for.

“It was nothing...he needed somebody and I was around.”  You reached for another peach, juice dribbling from your fingers onto your chest. 

_Great, just what I needed_ _,_  you lamented, searching for something to dab the mess. 

The heatwave had rendered your high-neck dresses impractical, so Molly lent you one of her “breeze tops” on the condition you didn’t get it dirty. Desperate for something cooler you agreed, realizing all too late what the “breeze” portion meant. Eyelet lace scalloped a thick white chemise, hiding the tops of your shoulders and framing your chest in a low square neck style.

Though not racy by any means, it’d raised some eyebrows from Charles, Sean, and Javier, even garnering undue attention from Micah. _“Well well, the bookie has a body. Who you tryin’ to fool all gussied up like that, girl?”_

You paid him no mind, determined not to let anyone ruin the first true sunshine of spring. April’s relentless rain reaped bounties on New Hanover’s plains, aster, poppy, and daisies blanketing the grass in white, violet, and red.

In a streak of childish glee you’d picked enough to fill a basket, jabbing blooms into your bun like pins in a pincushion. The effect was haphazard but pretty, studding your hair with a wreath of buds that matched your coral calico skirt.  

A strip of red cloth stopped your search short as John offered his neckerchief. 

“Here,” he said, sounding utterly affected as he held it out to you. His eyes were firmly fixed to the ground beside him, cheeks ruddy and breath slightly labored. 

You hesitated. “John, I can’t—”

“Please,____,” he said, voice like low thunder. “It’s either that or I wipe it for you. 

You took the cloth without word, swiping the sticky mess as a mix of dirt, grass, and sweat flagged your nose. The scent shouldn’t have calmed you so much, nor should John’s stolen glances have been so exciting. But here you were.

Thankfully you managed to keep your cool, secretly thrilled when he refused to take the kerchief back.

“Keep it. Consider it partial thanks for looking after Jack,” said John, gratitude startling you.

You clutched it to your chest, hoping you didn’t look as struck as you felt. 

“And the other part?” you challenged, unsure of what’d made you so bold. 

 John didn’t flinch, though the sobriety on his face wasn’t remiss. “If it were up to me—”

“Isn’t it?” you quipped, 

“You made it clear what you aren’t willing to do, ____. Or did you forget that whole speech back in Valentine?” he snapped, struggling to keep his voice down. 

Across camp Tilly looked up from her mending, warning in the slight shake of her head. _“Be careful.”_ Temper had you unable to heed it. 

“Did _you_ forget what you did to me, John? What you asked of me?” you demanded, breath caught on the memory. 

The confusion on his face would’ve fooled anyone else. Hell, it almost fooled _you_  and you were sitting right in front of him. John was raw, agitated and open under the midday sun. You thought to spur him, touch tinder to flame the way you’d wanted to for so long. The tenderness on his face stopped you short. 

Something about it tore into you, stripping your fight like a rabbit flayed of fur.

“Can’t forget what I dream about every night,” he said, so close you could reach out and touch him.

_“The woman I love.”_  That’s what he called you. Never had it been more evident than this exact moment. You’d pushed him away in Valentine, called him foolish and reckless. And though he was still both of those things, you knew now what he’d been trying to cull from you.

_An admission._ John wanted to see you surrender. He wanted you desperate, needy for him—to what end, you almost didn’t want to find out.  _Almost_. 

“Dreams aren’t reality, no matter how much we’d like them to be,” you countered, trying not to choke on the truth.

John laid the gauntlet: “Meet me outside of camp and I’ll prove you wrong.”

  _I can’t._ You’d babysat his child, were friendly with his son’s mother— _I can’t_...

_Can’t you?_  The ache was nigh unbearable, smarting whenever you were in sight of each other. It seemed the same for him, and you suspected the gang’s more perceptive members—Hosea, Tilly, and Charles especially—had began to notice, mainly because you swapped talking to them for spending every spare minute with John. 

Though it hadn’t yet reached a pitch, it felt like the geysers you read about—pockets of want churning below a placid surface, biding time until oblivion. In your case, that oblivion would likely shatter what peace remained in camp.

_Liar. You told him you wouldn’t do it,_ your conscience spewed as you cemented the awful decision.

Sure, you’d lied to Arthur. But he’d been cruel where you’d only been gunshy, twisted a knife in your gut no amount of ledgers or liquor or laudanum would undo. You deserved relief, even if it broke a few (alright, _all_ )of your own rules. _Isn’t that what outlaw life’s all about?_

Breathless, you looked at John and ceded the last of your reserve.

“Pick a time and place, Marston.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry y’all, I know it’s been a minute! Developing a plot around something that was supposed to be just a set of smutty one-offs is harder than it looks. I probably should’ve outlined things a bit better to avoid posting delays, but the day I write a proper outline is the day I win the lottery so...not today.
> 
> Anyway, things are a lot better on the personal front (I’ve finally got a moving date for my new job!). Summer is in swing and I’m living my best glittery, disco-panted, “I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing-but-it-feels-damn-good” life. 
> 
> The chapter after this shouldn’t take a whole month to post (mainly because it’s already half written), but I’m sure y’all can guess what it’ll be.


End file.
